


This Heavy Crown

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Holiday Collection [9]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War Era, Drunk Memories, End of the Cold War, Implied Relationship, M/M, Nostalgia, Prompt Day 9, Prompt:Ushanka, RusAmeHoliday, RusAmeHolidayPrompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: RusAme Holiday Prompt #9: Ushanka
(That's the furry hat with ear flaps that you can pin up to make one big cap; a lot of places on the Internet just call it the Russian hat.  Yeah.  If you google it, you'll get it)Don't hate me - I had to rush on this one *cries*





	

**Author's Note:**

> When I was thinking of a name for this piece, I suddenly thought of "Heavy Crown" by Iggy Azalea, specifically, Ellie Goulding's feature in the song. For some reason, I thought it fits remarkably well for what I was thinking about originally. It's like, the weight of the crown is so much to bear - being on top is lonely - and though they share it, they can't share it with each other because they have a responsibility to their people to bear it alone. Not sure if that got through, but, well...
> 
> "This heavy crown  
> It comes and goes around  
> And when it's time, I'll pass it proud  
> But bitch I got it now"  
> -Ellie Goulding, "Heavy Crown," by Iggy Azalea

**RusAme Holiday Prompt #9: Ushanka**

            _Ow_. _What just happened?_

            He blinked, grit in his eyes, before shutting them again with a groan. Where was he? His hands flattened against soft, quilted upholstery, and he forced himself upright, even as his head was throbbing. His back brushed comfortably against what he assumed was the arm or back of a sofa, which mean he was probably splayed out on his green couch in his living room, just outside of DC.

            But how had he gotten here?

            He blinked again, slower this time, and allowed the light – barely there, blocked by most of the heavy curtains shielding him from the sun’s early morning rays – to filter into his vision without producing the ache inducing throbbing in his brain. His eyes scanned the room slowly, lazily; he was right, he was in his living room. He’d been curled up on his quilted, soft green couch –he could feel the imprint of the pillow’s embroidery on his cheek already – wrapped warmly in a heavy blanket, shielding him from the cold weather chill that permeated even his well-lit and well-heated home. The blanket had fallen down to his chest level when he’d levered himself up, but it remained warm and present, and he felt himself relaxing, tilting his head back to lean it against the couch’s arm.

            A soft thump sounded, out of nowhere, and suddenly, his head was a lot colder than it had been a second ago.

            _Was I wearing a hat?_

He frowned at the thought – he was sure he hadn’t been wearing one when they’d left the meeting last night, so why would he have one now? – but he reached over the arm of the sofa nonetheless, and his fingers clutched at a soft, furry material laying on warm paneled floors. He tugged it up, tossing it, so he could catch it with a better grip than he’d had before, before bringing in front of him.

            He blinked, and then, almost glacially slow, blinked again. He tilted his head to the side, just a bit, and a shaft of early dawn’s sunlight broke through the curtains drawn behind him and lit up the insignia pinned to the center front of the object in his hands.

            The golden hammer and sickle gleamed at him.

            He felt his heart stop in his chest, and a flare of pain spiked in his head. What on earth had he done the night before? He couldn’t quite remember, everything was coming in flashes, each one slightly more painful and throbbing in this poor head than the last.

_Violet eyes – unmistakable as their owner – flashed through his hazy memories, and he remembered warm hands holding him close, steadying him in his drunken haze. There was gentle breath against his throat, lips that brushed lightly against his forehead as a snug warmth settled on the crown of his head. He could feel his face contorting into a mask of confusion; he heard himself whimper, even as he relished in the warmth._

_“Hush **solnyshko,** ” a voice rumbled and it was indescribable how just hearing that voice – that unmistakable, reassuring, warmth filled timbre – made him relax. He felt a blanket of warmth engulf him lovingly as he was shifted into the other’s arms. His cheeks brushed the soft, wooly material of a pale scarf, and he settled, nuzzling the comforting material, sighing; knowing he was safe and no one could ever hurt him where he was._

_“Love you, Vanya,” he sighed into the soft material of the scarf, feeling the other stir as he snuggled into the warmth that was engulfing him delightfully. There was a moment of stillness, which he certainly did not notice at the time, before a heavy sigh was released; Nantucket stirred sleepily on his head, undisturbed by the ushanka settled snugly on his golden wheat crown._

_“I know, **dorogoy** ,” and the voice sounded oddly sad, almost…grieving? He sighed deeper in his warmth-induced haze as the other’s voice came through again, softly, “Always.”_

            He felt his heart sink, even as his eyes flickered open and he caught sight of the _very_ familiar insignia pinned onto the center of the fluffy, furry, warm Russian cap that had been fitted around his head at some point last night. Still there, his mind said. It hadn’t been a brief, hung-over hallucination. Which meant that all of last night had actually happened.

            Not that anything had actually happened. He remembered that much at least.

            He sighed, relaxing back against the arm of his sofa, toying with the edge of the soft, fuzzy hat that his former lover had given him. And he wondered how long they would be like this, how long they would live like this; unable to tell each other the fundamental truths they held in their hearts for each other.

            He sighed again, chastising himself in his mind. There was no use in anguishing about it; it wasn’t like he could do anything to change it.

            The little black cap vanished into his storage closet (no, not _that_ one), and soon enough, he forgot that it was there entirely.

**YEARS LATER**

“You can take the guest bedroom,” America offered politely as he opened the door into his home, tossing the keys into a bowl next to the door for that specific purpose. Russia trailed behind him at a polite distance, taking in the small changes that had been made since the last time he had been in his rival’s Virginia home. Most of it looked the same as it had since the last time he’d snuck in, but there were small changes that the younger nation had made that hadn’t quite been picked up by the small spy cameras that were hidden throughout the house.

            The couch, for one, that sat in front of the fireplace was different than the one he remembered from the last time he had been here. Instead of soft, green quilted material, it was a deep red, contrasting with the soft beige rug and caramel colored walls. The fireplace cast flickering shadows on the couch from where America had lit it, but otherwise, it looked very comfortable, homey almost.

            And so very familiar.

            He followed his host up the stairs as he tried to fight back the nostalgia that threatened to overwhelm him. The last time he had been in this house had been a night long ago, just before the Cold War had ended and the Soviet Union had fallen. He had found his golden-haired beloved drunk and quiet – unlike his usual drunken behavior, which had been why he hadn’t quite realized the other had been indulging quite a bit until he smelled the whiskey on his breath – in a bar not far from his legislature. The younger had been somewhat down – quiet, disturbingly so, and soft-spoken when he did speak – but had recognized the elder nation the moment he’d come into sight.

            Only, his reaction hadn’t been quite what Russia had expected, then.

            He’d wondered, idly, what century America had thought it had been, that day. For certainly, the other nation hadn’t glomped him quite like that in well over a century. He’d sat on the barstool, right next to where the other had been sitting, and within seconds, the wheat-haired nation had been straddling his lap, wrapping himself in the warmth that the other nation was providing him with. And Russia had been left utterly speechless.

            He’d tried his hardest – although, upon reflection, it might have been more half-hearted than he had thought originally – to get the younger nation to release him and leave him be; let him mourn the slow collapse of his country and the chaos spreading amongst his people as decades worth of oppression was being revealed to the international stage. But it hadn’t worked, and later, when he’d lifted the other into his arms and made his way towards where he knew the nation’s home was, he knew he would never regret it.

            _Love you, Vanya,_ he remembered, and tried to push away the warmth that those memories brought him, along with the sadness.

            He wouldn’t forget – could never forget – whom his heart lay with. Just as he knew America would never forget who had stolen his.

            He shook his head to clear his thoughts as America left him at his room and wandered back down the hallway to his study, where he knew the other nation would spend at least an hour analyzing all the notes he’d taken to write a cohesive report for his boss; although most nations wouldn’t believe it, America had a fairly incredible work ethic, sometimes to the point of being a workaholic. He’d be in there for a while, so Russia had some time to explore the house.

            Perhaps accidentally scheduling his flight for the wrong day would be a good thing, he pondered.

            He settled his bag down on the soft, laundered comforter, wondering idly who was the last person who had been a guest in America’s home. From the empty tea tin he saw out of the corner of his eyes, he had an idea, and it made his heart clench furiously. England may be nothing more than a father to his beloved, but the two of them were not estranged; not the way he and America were now.

            He sighed, moving towards the closet in the room that he knew America tended to utilize for storage when he found nowhere else to keep things. If he was bored, the least he could do was search through the interesting things his host had collected; who knew, there might even be something he could use to blackmail England with…

            A fluffy black object fell from the top shelf of the closet the moment the door opened. He stared, disbelief sliding on his features.

            It was the same dark black, fur soft ushanka he had left decades ago, on the same night that he’d last been to America’s home (that he knew about, at least). It gleamed at him, fur soft and smooth, washed, cleaned, and the Soviet insignia glinting in the lamplight.

            _He kept it_ , his mind whirled.

            “Russia?” he heard America’s voice come through the hallway, and he had a split second urge to pitch the ushanka half way across the room before the door opened, but was too late to act before the wooden portal unlocked, and blue eyes peaked into the room, “D’you want anything to eat? I’ve got the ingredients for…”blue eyes locked on the soft hat in his hands and words stopped cold. A soft “Oh,” left his lips, and Russia turned to him, gaze locked on crystal blue.

            “You kept it,” he said quietly, and saw America flush slightly, fidgeting slightly with the hem of his shirtsleeve.

            He shrugged and tried to dismiss it, but instead, he blurted, “You took care of me,” before freezing, mortified, and glancing away. But Russia felt a smile crawl onto his face, and he moved closer to wrap his arms around the younger blond, curling them together so they couldn’t feel the distance that had grown between them after a cold war and heartbreak. He curled a hand into wheat locks, trying to recall the last time they had been like this, and it _hurt_ that he couldn’t quite remember.

            “I promised,” he said tenderly, watching blue eyes soften, “ _Always_ , and I know you remember, _dorogoy_.” The sheepish glance that earned him made the lighthearted teasing even more satisfactory.

            Gentle, but strong hands reached up to clasp around his neck, entwining in each other, as their owner looked at him contemplatively, “We can’t be like this now,” he said, and their was a mournful tone in his voice.

            “You bear the crown,” he countered, and they both knew what he meant, “there is nothing you _cannot_ do. If you wish it.” And he knew, in his heart, he was right; America, the land of innovation, of freedom, and opportunity – there was never a better place to pull something that no one else was expecting and shatter all beliefs.

            “You wore it once, too,” his blond counterpart huffed, eyes gleaming, “Some say you still do.” He felt a grin of his own stretching on his face, but he forced himself to temper it; so the oblivious little blond did pay attention to rumors, he had been wondering.

            “There is nothing we cannot share, is there?” he asked, twining the two of them even closer together, the ushanka in his free hand slipping from his grip as he pulled the other closer to him. His grin would’ve scared any other nation than the one it was directed at.

            The blond superpower hummed, but the grin was in his eyes.

            “I don’t see why not.”

 

"This heavy crown

It comes and goes around

And when it's time, I'll pass it proud

But bitch I got it now"

-Ellie Goulding, "Heavy Crown," by Iggy Azalea


End file.
